He was irritated by this woman’s unnecessary artfulness; why use these artifices, which offended him the more, because she could easily tell him outright and settle it? “Julia, you speak to me as to a visitor who has to be entertained? Why this ceremony?” “There is no ceremony about it!” she replied in a displeased tone. “It--simplifies our relations, that is all: every one occupies himself--with what he pleases. I am--reading. And you occupy yourself with something else, and if you feel ennui--go away.” She was driving him out. Kostovsky was beside himself with rage at this “simplifying of relations,” and at her sudden leaving off of the familiar “thou” and adopting the more conventional “you.” “Listen to me,” he said, in a voice full of irritation, and likewise availing himself of the term “you.” “I wish to speak to you, and will not wait till you finish reading.” She did not reply, and, half-reclining on the bed, she continued looking at the open book. A painful silence ensued. Kostovsky sat at the table and quietly gazed at Julia. Leaning on her elbows on the pillow, she had thrown herself into a graceful, kittenish pose, her little feet encased in their tiny, light slippers, impishly hid under the folds of her kimono, and from their hiding-place teased Kostovsky. The lovely curves of her body showed through the thin dress, the wide sleeves left visible her chubby arms to the elbow; and she was, as a whole, so sweet and graceful that Kostovsky, hating her at this moment, longed to take her in his arms. He turned his eyes away from her. The room was poorly furnished--a cheap hotel room, lighted by electricity. Near the door stood the wardrobe with her costumes, in the centre the table, and near the window the dresser and a mirror. On a rack close to the entrance into the room hung her plush jacket, trimmed with tiny cats’ paws. He looked long and with hatred at this jacket with its cats’ paws, and recalled how amiably she used to meet him before, forcing him into a chair and smoothing his bristly locks tenderly, and how pleasant it was to feel the tender touch of the little hand. She quickly flung away her book, and angrily rose from the bed. “You have nothing to speak to me about!” she exclaimed, reddening. “Everything has been said already! It is time to end this spoony love affair, this sentimental driveling!” “Spooniness--sentimental driveling,” he bitterly repeated. “Julia! What has come between us?” “There is nothing between us, nothing could be!” she energetically declared. “We have nothing in common--nothing whatsoever--and--we must put an end to our acquaintanceship!” She gave the table a push and sat down in the darkest corner of the room, looking at him from there with her large, black eyes. Her eyes had always the same expression; no matter at whom they looked, they seemed to be inviting and promising something without the knowledge of their possessor. Spurning him, she at the same time lured him on.